


Emergence

by wtfrenchtoast



Category: The Town (2010)
Genre: Blowjobs, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Handcuffs, Minor Character Death, bankrobbery, hostage, niagarafalls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-09 00:24:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtfrenchtoast/pseuds/wtfrenchtoast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A botched heist takes an unexpected turn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Emergence

**Author's Note:**

> My entry for jrfrustration's spring contest! See all the fics here: http://jrfrustration.tumblr.com/post/48202819058/contest-masterpost-well-everyone-our-entries-are

 

“Shut the fuck up. You wanna live, you don’t make one fuckin’ sound, you understand me?”

 

She nods tearfully.

 

There’s a succession of loud, startling pops as a series of gunshots ring out through the lobby. The shrill tinkling of shattering glass not long after. She winces, tears rolling down her cheeks, as the shots are followed by heavy thuds and the panicked screams of the unfortunate souls still trapped with the robbers. Her captor peeks around the doorframe and curses under his breath. “Fuckin’ cops, you motherfuckers are _dead_ , you better fuckin’ believe it–“

 

He stands, his AK held across his chest menacingly. “I’ll take every single one you with me, swear to God,” he growls, his eyes never leaving the lobby.

 

Hysteria and an overwhelming urge to vomit threaten to consume her. Gunshots. How could they? We did everything they asked. We gave them our phones, we got on the ground, nobody tried to fight back. Her stomach rolls as she thinks of her coworkers, bleeding out on the cheap commercial-grade carpet. Their families.

 

She can’t hold it back. She turns and heaves into the corner, the remains of breakfast and bad coffee. The sounds of retching don’t catch the attention of the black-clad figure wearing a Bruins goalie mask, who’s still staring intently at the line of teller windows and what must be a massacre scene just beyond.

 

She still can’t see what happened, too terrified to move. The supply room is cramped, filled with boxes of deposit slips and the machine that takes the pictures of the checks before they send them to the main branch. There’s a fire extinguisher a few feet away. If she dared, she could probably jerk away and if she moved fast enough she could surprise him, bash his face in with the thing.

 

Shaking, she pushes the thought aside. Yes, bash his face in, just to have him turn around and empty that stolen semiautomatic into her helpless body. It’s a shot in the dark, and right now she needs better odds than that.

 

Suddenly, the flat echo of a bullhorn reverberates through the air. “This is the Boston Police. The building is surrounded. Repeat – the building is surrounded. Open the doors, let the hostages go.”

 

Her heart leaps into her throat. Oh, God, this nightmare, it’s almost over and she can go home to her cat and her boyfriend and tell herself that none of this is real. “Please,” she whispers hoarsely. “Please. The police are here. If you don’t hurt anybody else–“

 

She can’t see his face, but from the enraged way he turns on her it’s clear he’s furious. He angrily points to the lobby for emphasis. “If _we_ don’t hurt nobody else? You stupid bitch, those motherfuckin’ pigs just–“

 

Heavy, insistent pounding at the main doors interrupts him. “Police!” yells a gruff, low voice, and a few of the hostages whimper. “Open the fuckin’ door!”

 

His breathing picks up as his head darts from side to side. Abruptly, he turns back towards her and grabs her by the collar of her blouse. “You listen to me,” he snarls. “I ain’t going back to lockup. Those cops get in, I’m gonna take out as many of you miserable fucks as I can before they cap me. Now, I know there’s another way outta here. You show me where, I let you live. Got it?”

 

She got it. Anxiously she nods. He roughly jerks her to her feet and grabs her arm, tight enough to bruise. Trembling, she leads him down the hallway from the supply room, away from the lobby. With a terrified glance behind her she sees that no one has spotted them, thank God.

 

At the end of the hall they take a right turn and a sharp left, until they’re faced with a heavy door that has an emergency alarm beside the frame. As they approach, and he notices the alarm box, she hears him draw in a fuming breath. “Oh, you better not be stallin’ for the cops, sweetheart, or you’re gonna be one sorry–“

 

“No,” she cuts him off, forcefully, “I-I just need to…” She pulls a set of keys from her pocket and rifles through each until she comes to a small, tarnished brass one. “It’s an old fire escape, they stopped using it back in the nineties. It leads to the basement and there’s an outlet to the street.”

 

As she unlocks the ancient doorknob and swings it open, she holds her breath and prayed the alarm didn’t choose this one time to blare into existence. No sound but the creak of the rusting hinges. As she descends into the darkened, concrete stairwell, she hears him chuckle behind her. “Sure do know a lot about some secret hideout nobody’s used in twenty years. Sneakin’ down for a lunchtime quickie? Naughty girl.”

 

She seethes as she takes each shadowy step down in her stiletto heels, and shoots him back an uncharacteristically annoyed look. “You think you’re the first asshole who’s marched in here with an attitude and a rifle like he’s Butch Cassidy? Please.” What kind of crazy fuck jokes at a time like this, when his life – and hers, by proxy – is in danger of being very violently cut short? Her blood begins to run colder and colder, until it’s like ice in her veins. A psycho, that’s who. A psycho to whom she is now entrusting her life and welfare as she leads him into the bowels of the Baytown building, alone, with only his word that if she makes good on her promise of escape, he won’t blow her brains out.

 

As if echoing her thoughts, he replies smugly, “Oh, I know for sure I ain’t the first. But I bet I’m the first you’ve personally escorted to freedom.”

 

Terror seizes her, and she takes a deep breath to try and ground herself. But vertigo turns her legs to jelly, and she stumbles down the last few stairs, her fingers scrabbling for purchase, finding nothing but the canvas of his jacket. They tumble down in a heap of limbs. She cries out as her knee connects hard with the poured concrete floor, and she hears him swear as he lands ungracefully on his side, knocking the wind out of him.

 

A few feet away, the hockey mask rests face-up like a severed head. She registers the sight of it, and unthinkingly turns back to her captor.

 

Close-cropped blonde hair, a strong nose, and an angry scowl that twists his intense, rugged face. It all hits her hard. He’s older than she expected, and his striking looks don’t match the brutal ruthlessness she’s encountered so far. What takes her aback the most, though, are his eyes. Even in the dim, sallow light of the basement, she’s struck by the way the brilliant shade of blue seems to burn right through her.

 

They stare at each for several long, endless moments, at a loss for what to do with the other.

 

She should run. She knows the way out; he doesn’t. It wouldn’t be hard to lose him in the maze of narrow, barely-lit corridors, lined with rows and rows of plumbing and boilers and water tanks. Let the cops pour in and flush him out.

 

But she never gets the chance. In the next second she’s dragged to her feet and the barrel of the rifle’s poking into her back. “Looks like we’re gonna be spending a lot more time together,” he spits. “Hope you like road trips, bitch.”

 

Her mouth goes dry as he prods her forward. “Move,” he orders. As if she had any other option.

 

*          *          *

 

Tara McGowan stands at the teller window, calmly explaining to the grouchy, middle-aged customer why she wasn’t going to reverse yet another overdraft fee. “Mr. Reynolds, I completely understand but this is the fifth time this year that you’ve incurred this fee–“

 

“Stealing my money!” the man mutters gruffly. “Bad enough I went under, but now I gotta pay you for it too? Ridiculous.” He scowls and wags his finger at the two women. “I’m closing my account! Bet your pretty little face I will.”

 

Inwardly Tara rolls her eyes; it’s hardly a new threat. She has the response memorized and could recite it in her sleep. “I understand. I’m happy to provide a couple of check registers if you think that would be helpful–“

 

“Forget it!” he replies nastily. “I’m done with you people.” He storms out, shoving open the double doors and marching out onto the busy sidewalk.

 

Tara lets out a long breath. The teller, a sweet-faced blonde girl from the local community college, shrugs. “I feel kind of bad for him,” she confesses, pushing her hair behind her ears.

 

Tara nods in agreement. “I do, too. I mean, it happens to everyone from time to time. For him, though, it’s…a lot.” She picks up her coffee mug and returns to her desk, set a ways back from the teller line. It’s Wednesday morning, and the Brinks guy will be arriving soon to drop off the cash shipment and do the pickup. When she’d begun working for the bank a couple of years ago, she thought it was odd that they had to send out and receive cash – why not just keep what they had? But then she learned all the ins and outs of banking and federal regulations and audits, and by the time she was promoted to service manager, it was like second nature.

 

Upon returning to her desk, loaded with papers and notes and forms, she noticed her phone blinking. It’s a text from her boyfriend, Shane, asking if she minded that he went to his buddy’s place for a poker night. She replied that she didn’t care, and sighed. Dinner for one, it is.

 

She likes Boston. After graduating from Northeastern she had been reluctant to move back home in upstate New York, a rural farmtown with one grocery store and not much else. There was life here, innovation and excitement and a throbbing pulse that she gladly took part in.

 

Not that managing the teller line at a bank was exactly glamorous fast-lane city life, but it paid the bills. And it was Boston, so there were plenty of those.

 

Tara yawns. At eleven a.m. sharp, the armed Brinks deliveryman strides into the branch, towing a dolly with him that carried approximately eighty grand in cash, straight from the Federal Reserve. She meets his eyes and smiles, rising to let him behind the keycard-locked door to the vault.

 

He winks at her, like he does every week. She prays that the inevitable doesn’t finally arrive and he’d ask her for coffee or a movie or something; she can see it in his eyes that he’s dying to. He tries to make small talk but she keeps her replies polite and short. As he hands her the heavy-duty plastic bag containing the neatly wrapped bills, she takes in his appearance. Floppy, greasy black hair, obviously smoothed down with some kind of weird oily substance, and beady eyes that paw at her even from a distance. In her mind she shudders.

 

When he’s finished loading the outbound bags, he winks at her again and departs. With relief she exhales, and turns her attention to the boxes of rolled coin and the package of cash that needs to be counted and broken down.

 

It’s the same routine, every week. She balks at it, at first, but as time went on she begins to rely on it. Tries not to think about the cookie-cutter, vanilla turn that her life has taken, and just keeps on trudging through.

 

Until an unusually warm Wednesday morning in March, when it all came crashing down.

 

*          *          *

 

Her captor hangs back in the darkened corridor, ripping his black jacket off to reveal a Kevlar vest underneath. She watches as he hastily tears open the Velcro and removes the vest as well, tucking both over his arm to conceal the machine gun. His other hand lashes out and snags hers tightly. "You and me, we're out for a nice morning stroll, got it? Make one move and I'll put one between your eyes. Nice and neat."

 

Terror gripped her hard. And yet, she couldn't tear her eyes from the snug gray t-shirt stretched across his muscled chest, damp in places with sweat. Tattoos lined both forearms and two more, high on his bulky biceps, peeked out from his short sleeves. He was a machine, designed for violence and intimidation and fuck if it didn't fascinate her just the tiniest bit.

 

She nods in acquiescence and he clasps her hand in his like they're on a pleasant afternoon walk. The emergency exit let them out in the utility section of the building's outlet, near the dumpsters and loading dock. She smoothes her hair away from her face and tries to appear relaxed. The sirens from the numerous patrol cars and SWAT vans and the general sounds of panic permeate the air, and she tenses. Unconsciously she squeezes his hand tighter, and he chuckles smugly. "Scared?"

 

She lets out a terrified huff of breath. "Is that even a question, you psycho?"

 

"Aw, come on. Don't be like that. Way I see it, I did you a favor. Wouldn't you rather be out here, enjoying this fine New England weather, than stuck inside crunchin' numbers?" He shoots her a lazy half-grin.

 

Tara is struck by how much that smile turned his malicious demeanor into an underhanded sort of charm. It's the adrenaline, she tells herself anxiously. Fear and panic do crazy things to one's senses.

 

But, shit. He's got a point.

 

As he leads them further and further from the swarming building at a brisk, purposeful pace, she chooses her next words carefully. "Sure. Although, probably under different circumstances," she admits, trying to keep her tone light and unassuming.

 

He laughs. Not an evil cackle like she'd expect all bad guys to have as they concoct their diabolical plans, but a carefree everyday sound that almost made her forget that he was a violent criminal.

 

Almost.

 

Abruptly he stops walking, jerking her to a halt. "No sudden moves," he reminds her with a growl.

 

He surreptitiously glances around for onlookers as he nearly drags her to an unmarked navy blue van. They circle around to the back, which he opens and pushes her inside. He follows her in.

 

Tara's heart begins to race. "Where-where are we going?" Her voice takes on a shrill, hysterical pitch.

 

"Don't fuckin' worry about it," he answers with a sneer. From a plastic box he retrieves a long strip of black fabric and three pairs of handcuffs. As he leans over her she feels the panic flood her veins. "Oh God," she panted. "Please. Please, I won't tell anyone, just let me go, I don't want to-"

 

"Shut up." His words cut into her like a blade right into her gut. "You ain't callin' the shots here." A pair of handcuffs slide around her wrists and the click of the lock slams home. She feels another pair snap around her ankles. Wriggling helplessly, he overpowers her with barely any effort and wraps the blindfold tightly around her eyes. The tears come pouring out as she sobs wildly. "Can't have you sneakin' off on me, sweetheart. After all we been through together? You'd break my heart."

 

"You're fucking crazy!" She flails desperately but it's to no avail. Stretched out on the floor of the van, he pulls her arms over her head and she hears the metallic clink of the last pair of handcuffs. She can't see what he's done but she can't pull her arms back down; he's secured them to some anchor point on the floor.

 

"You got that right," he agrees easily, his voice caustic. The heat radiating off of his body seeps right through her blouse and pencil skirt, and the next thing she feels is his hot breath next to her ear. "You know, you're a pretty little thing. I think we could have ourselves some fun later, what do you think?" She can hear the smile in his tone as he presses his hard body against her, and despite herself, the feel of all that steely muscle makes her pulse spike.

 

"Fuck you!" she spits back reactively.

 

He laughs, long and full of mirth. "That's what I'm sayin'! Glad we're on the same page." He climbs off of her and clambers into the driver's seat. The engine rumbles to life, and the last vestiges of hope drain from her heart. All she could hope for now was that he'd leave enough of her behind to ID her body.

 

*          *          *

 

He doesn't speak. Not that there's all that much conversation to be had with a sociopathic bank robber and his kidnapped hostage.

 

She falls into an exhausted, restless sleep somewhere after the first three hours or so. She awakes when the ride becomes bumpy and she's jostled back to consciousness. He drags her from the vehicle, still blindfolded, and shoves her into the backseat of another car. This one is smaller, and she can detect light permeating the dark material. Disoriented, she began to feel the more human needs of her body begin to tug at her attention.

 

"Are you planning on feeding me? Or is that not part of your standard hostage care plan?" she asked dryly. Hunger and a rapidly growing need for the bathroom were overpowering everything else at the moment.

 

"Gonna have to be a big girl and hold it for now," he answers snarkily. "We got places to be." He covers her with what feels like a blanket, and maybe a few coats, to keep her hidden.

 

And they drive. Tara's mind wanders to Sean, and their calico kitty. Her coworkers at the bank. Were they looking for her? Who were the casualties? Did the police catch the other thugs, or were they still out there somewhere? Was he taking her to meet up with them? What would they do to her?

 

Not enough answers. The hopelessness stabs into her and she can't hold back the waterworks again. Quietly she cries into the sleeve of her blouse, salty tears soaking into the crisp fabric.

 

"You cryin' again? Fuck." The harsh Boston accent makes her cringe, and she can only sob harder as he lets out a frustrated sigh. "Look. Ain't my style to...pick up baggage. You know what I mean?" He doesn't wait for her to respond. "But I can't just let you go on your merry little fuckin' way either. You seen my face. Ain't nothin' stopping you from going straight to the nearest cop and runnin' your mouth all about me and my buddies."

 

"I told you, I wouldn't say anything-" she insists, before he cuts her off vehemently.

 

"Fuck that," he shouts. "You'll say you'd keep your mouth shut, sure. That don't mean jack shit to me. Can't trust nobody, that's the only truth in this world." She hears him whack the steering wheel hard. “Don’t matter anymore,” he continues in a quiet voice. “Just me, now.”

 

Before she can stop herself, she blurts, “What, you expect me to feel sorry for you because your loser friends got what they deserved? They’re gonna spend their lives being somebody’s bitch and because of fucking dumb luck you got away?”

 

“You fuckin’ kidding me?” he roars. “Stupid bitch, those motherfuckin’ pigs capped everybody but me! Got Des in the back of the head. Left your precious bankers alone, so don’t cry too hard.” She feels the engine rev as he slams on the gas in rage.

 

Tara is floored; she doesn’t know what to say. She had believed that the gunshots were from the robbers, not the cops. A stab of something like…empathy? Some twisted sense of sorrow? She should be satisfied. Or if nothing else, relieved. But she can’t bring herself to gloat. “I’m…I’m sorry,” she offers weakly, confused even as the words come out.

 

“Yeah, I don’t need your fuckin’ pity.”

 

He says nothing for the remainder of the ride. She’s left with a maelstrom of emotions that toss her around like a sailboat in a storm.

 

*          *          *

 

He finally lets her out to use the facilities, which turns out to be a rest stop bathroom that makes her skin crawl with the condition it’s in. His fingers rest on the AK the entire time, the implicit threat hovering on the black steel. It’s late afternoon at this point, and traffic is beginning to pick up with the approaching rush hour.

 

He hands her a few small bills and sends her to the vending machine inside the main building, again with his eyes trained on her nonstop. She selects a variety of items – fruit snacks, chips, a Snickers bar, and a slew of other things as well as a couple bottles of water from the Pepsi machine.

 

Arms loaded, she returns to the car (a silver Toyota, as nondescript as it gets) and stares awkwardly at the passenger door. She sighs with resignation. “Will you please just let me sit like a normal person? It’s going to be kinda tough to eat with my hands chained together. You can cuff my legs if it makes you feel better. And also? It’d probably look a lot less suspicious.” She eyes him tiredly. The hangover from the shock and pure exhaustion are making it difficult for her to think of anything but food and rest.

 

He nods. “You try anything–“

 

She practically rolls her eyes. “I know.” She manages to open the car door without too much trouble and nearly falls into the seat. He follows suit, and takes her up on the offer to chain her ankles back together. With a smirk he steals a bag of Doritos from her lap and commandeers the second water bottle before heading back out on the freeway.

 

After she’s nearly inhaled the rest of the food and water, she feels marginally more human. “What’s your name?” And apparently, more bold.

 

After a beat he replies, “You can call me Jem.”

 

The irony is not lost on her. “Okay. Jem. Were you a jewel thief before you were a bank robber?”

 

He shoots her a withering look. “What is this, Twenty Questions?”

 

She folds her arms across her chest. “Just thought since we’re gonna be joined at the hip for the next foreseeable future–“ The flow of words cuts off abruptly from her mouth when the implication of her statement hits her.

 

“Joined at the hip? Or is there somewhere else you’d like me to join you?” Jem slides a suggestive glance at her, and she feels her cheeks grow hot. Why is her body betraying her like this?

 

A lock of hair falls in her eyes, and she pushes it behind her ear uncomfortably. “I find it hilarious that you think that after threatening my life, kidnapping me, and otherwise generally terrorizing me that you’d actually think I was attracted to you.” She fixes her eyes out into the distance, watching the world fly past.

 

“It is pretty fuckin’ funny,” he agrees. “That don’t make it any less true. I seen you lookin’ at me, sweetheart. I ain’t blind.” He switches hands on the steering wheel, letting one rest against the window. She doesn’t fail to notice the sizable muscles in his forearms, the way the veins stand out under his skin. Power. Raw power. It makes her shiver.

 

Somewhere in the back of her mind, a little voice is screaming at her that this is wrong, this is fucked up, she’s not thinking clearly, it’s the trauma talking and not her brain.

 

Luckily, he speaks so she doesn’t have to. “Let me guess. You got some white-bread, white-collar boyfriend waitin’ for you back home, and to him, gettin’ freaky means you do it with the lights on. How am I doin’ so far?”

 

Tara says nothing, just continues to peer outside. He takes her silence as confirmation. “Ah. See, it ain’t that complicated. Lots of girls go slummin’ once in a while, and then they run back to their Beacon Hill husbands and pretend they’re satisfied. Nothing new.”

 

She turns her head to respond, and is taken aback by his searing blue eyes staring straight into hers. Under all the violence and bravado and erratic behavior there’s something else, something damaged and bitter. Loss.

 

Out of the corner of her eye, she spots a large green sign with white lettering, looking oddly like… “Niagara Falls?!” she screeches. “Are you fucking serious?” In disbelief, she plasters herself against the window. Sure enough, the Rainbow bridge looms in the distance, and the numerous tourist shops that line the streets confirm her realization.

 

“Told ya we were takin’ a road trip.”

 

*          *          *

 

They stop, finally, at a hole-in-the-wall motel not far from the border. Tara steps out of the car and stretches her legs. Her clothes are rumpled and wrinkled, not to mention dirty.

 

Jem cuffs her to the car door handle while he checks in, pulling a Yankees hoodie on over his t-shirt with a smirk before entering the lobby. He returns with a room key and rips the sweatshirt off, scowling. He stuffs it in the nearest trash can before leading them down the hall to their room.

 

It’s a single, as she had suspected, with one double bed. “Anybody asks, I’ll tell ‘em you’re my escort,” he winked.

 

At this point, it could have been a mud hut for all she cares, as long as it has a hot shower. Tara brushes past him and into the bathroom, stripping off her clothes the moment the door is shut. The hot water feels like heaven on her sweaty, clammy skin, washing away the hours of terror and fear and confusion.

 

Many minutes later, when she emerges from the steamy room, she realizes a moment too late that she has nothing to change into. Neither of them do. One towel wrapped around her naked body and another bundled around her hair was the best she could do.

 

“Um,” she begins, hyper-aware of the way Jem’s stare travels hungrily over her. “I don’t suppose you’ve got spare clothes lying around?”

 

He takes his time before answering, making no secret of undressing her with his eyes. “Now why would I wanna help you cover all that up?” He lays back on the ugly bedspread, propped up on his elbows. The desire emanating from him is so brazen. Had Shane ever looked at her like that? She can’t remember.

 

She realizes that she wants Jem. Wants to feel that impressive body pressing against her, into her. Wants to cede control, for once in her life, and let him take her wherever he would lead. The thought is simultaneously terrifying and thrilling.

 

Flustered, she turns to retreat back into the bathroom. “Fine, I’ll just–“

 

In a flash he’s got one muscular arm in front of her, blocking her escape. “Tell me something,” he rasps, the burning intensity rippling through his voice. “The truth. If I pushed you up against this wall, put my hands on you…what would you do?”

 

She can’t tear her eyes away. No words form in her mind – all she sees are his strong hands lifting her up, her legs wrapping around his hips. She feels the stubble of his jaw rub the sensitive skin of her breasts, her stomach…and lower. Hears the hard pant of his breaths as she slides her fingers around his length. Her screams as she comes hard around him.

 

There’s no joke in his gaze, just barely restrained lust. “I ain’t gonna force you, sweetheart. I may be fucked-up but that ain’t my style.” His stare grows impossibly hotter as he nearly glares at her. “Now answer me.”

 

She’s barely hearing herself as she whispers, “I’d let you.”

 

It’s all the permission he needs. His lips attack hers, almost violently, drawing her up in a kiss that makes her knees weak and heat pool in her belly. He grabs under her ass and grinds his hardening cock into where she’s already wet and aching, propping her back against the crappy wallpaper. The towel drifts to the floor, forgotten. “Shit,” he growls, dipping his face between her breasts. “Been thinkin’ about this since I first cuffed you.”

 

The handcuffs. Well, they’d definitely find more enjoyable uses for them now. “God, please,” she begs, not even sure what for, just for more of it. One nipple slides between his teeth and he worries it with his tongue, nipping lightly. She moans wildly.

 

“Fuck.” Jem sets her down and hastily yanks his t-shirt over his head. Tara’s jaw drops. He’s beautiful. Tattoos and biceps and God, she wants to feel that rock-hard masterpiece over her, under her, whatever, she didn’t even care.

 

His pants and boxers are shed on the way over to the bed. He pushes her back so she lands gracefully on her back, the towel on her hair tumbling to the carpet. “Today must have been my lucky day. Look at you.” She’s never felt so wanted.

 

He kneels between her legs, yanking on her hips so his face is right where her wet pussy is practically dripping for him. Her breath draws in sharply. Do men really like to do this? The way he’s devouring her with his eyes, she’d think he’d want nothing more in life.

 

He starts with his fingers, running the pad of his thumb over her slit and savoring each moan that falls from her lips. He circles her clit, teasing her until she’s bucking in his hands, then slides one long finger inside her. “So tight,” he murmurs as she whimpers desperately. He pumps her slowly, then picks up the pace, adding a second finger. She keens like she’s in heat. Her thighs are drawn tight when she feels the wet slickness of his tongue lave over her clit, and she nearly screams with the pleasure.

 

“Holy fuck, oh my God, please. Please don’t stop, shit,” she can barely speak it’s so fucking good. He is all too happy to oblige, continuing the assault on her clit and inside her tight wetness until she’s falling apart in his hands. The waves of pleasure crash over her until she’s crying out and nearly sobbing.

 

When he lifts his head from her pussy, face shining with her juices, he gives her a panty-dropping smirk. “Like that?” He stands and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand.

 

She fixes him with her own playful look, and the lust on his face triples. “It was good. Let me show you just how good.” She sits up, eye level with where his sizable cock is bobbing in front of her nose. Holy shit, he was big. Long and thick around, and at this moment she wants nothing more than to feel it inside her. Everywhere.

 

She keeps her eyes on his expression as she flicks her tongue around the head, listening as his breath hitches. She works her lips around the tip of it, finally wrapping her mouth around him and drawing him inside. “Oh, fuck yeah,” he pants. “That’s it, baby. Good girl.” His face goes slack as she pulls as much of him into her mouth as she can take. As she draws back, he lets out a ragged groan. It was intoxicating, seeing this powerful tempest of a man at her mercy.

 

His fingers entangle themselves in her hair as she sucks him off, fucking her face onto his cock like a porn star. His moans grow louder and more unrestrained, making no secret of exactly how much he was enjoying this.

 

“Fuck,” he bites off as he tugs on her hair, pulling her away from his cock. “Gonna make me come, baby, you keep that up. I’d rather blow my load with your pussy wrapped around my dick.”

 

She doesn’t argue, just scoots back on the bed to make room for him. He situates himself in the middle and manhandles her on top of him. “I wanna see you,” he declares.

 

Tara only hesitates momentarily before straddling Jem’s hips and positioning his cock at her entrance. She had an IUD, and as far as the rest, she’d already come this far on this strange, terrifying journey. They’d just have to trust each other.

 

She sinks down on him, gasping as the pleasure rocks through her. He stretches her open, wider than she’s ever been before. Blissed-out and half-lucid, he lets out a slow breath as her ass comes to rest on his thighs. “Wow.”

 

“Yeah,” she replies. She lets herself adjust to the feel of him before she begins to roll her hips forward, and he moans his approval. The rhythm picks up quickly as they take from the other what they need. Jem’s hands roam freely over her belly, her tits, reach around to grab at her ass as she rides him.

 

The pleasure’s building in her again, tightening down and she can feel herself begin to tip over the edge. “Jem, I-I’m gonna…I’m gonna come,” she chokes out.

 

“Fuck. Do it, baby. Come on my cock. Let me feel you squeeze my dick.” With that she lets out a desperate moan, almost a whine, as it overtakes her and she flutters helplessly around him. She falls forward, pressing herself against him.

 

“Shit, I’m gonna come too,” he rasps as he grips her hips firmly and pumps erratically up into her. “I’m gonna come inside you, fuck, you ready?”

 

She can only whimper her assent as he swears loudly, slamming himself inside her heat as he fills her.

 

They stay in that position for what feels like hours, eventually passing out tangled up in each other. They wake twice more in the night and he takes her again, once spooning her from behind and once with her on her back, legs spread, as he held her to him.

 

In the morning, Tara rolls over and says plainly, “You can’t go back to Boston.”

 

He glances back at her. “You can.”

 

The weight of the words hits her, hard. After a long moment, she replies, “I could. If I wanted to.”

 

He smiles. “Where do you wanna go?”

 

“Wherever you want.”

 

They make a stop at a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend’s smoke shop, and leave as Adam McCullough and Jamie Greene. As they cross the border into Ontario, one thought crosses her mind:

 

It’s the first day of spring.


End file.
